


Pointy Wooden Bits

by Elpie (Horribibble)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, M/M, Pierced Dorian Pavus, Pirate Bull, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 18:37:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12513796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie
Summary: Honestly, Dorian thought his father was being a bit over dramatic about all this. And he would tell him so, loudly and in grand public fashion, if he were not presently rooted in a pose of seductive invitation.And made of wood.-In which the Bull's Chargers need to replace the figurehead they knocked off of their shiny new (stolen) ship and Dorian just so happens to be a stiff contender for the position.





	Pointy Wooden Bits

**Author's Note:**

> I can't remember how I came up with this, but it exists. It's out in the world now. 
> 
> If you like it, consider joining us at the [Assquisition Discord.](https://discord.gg/vqRPPEd)
> 
> If you'd like to reblog it, you can do that [here.](http://anabundanceofstilinskis.tumblr.com/post/166828980427/pointy-wooden-bits-adoribull)

Honestly, Dorian thought his father was being a bit over dramatic about all this. And he would tell him so, loudly and in grand public fashion, if he were not presently rooted in a pose of seductive invitation.

And made of wood.

Because, as Halward said, if he were going to be such a _whore,_ he might as well be _useful_ about it.

And then he’d made him into a fucking _figurehead._

Which is in itself ironic, because it had always vexed his father so to see Dorian exposing himself, and now here he was, arms eternally outstretched, tits out in the open air, waiting to be purchased for slightly more than his usual drink and a smile.

 _It is simple enough to undo, my son._ Halward said, like he hadn’t just rendered his son an inanimate decoration. _You need only resolve to come **home.**_

Stretched out like the heroine of some horrid romantic rag with Rilienus’ sheets still draped about him, he’s not certain how long he’ll be able to hold out amongst these cramped, dusty shelves.

Surely no one will purchase such a tawdry decoration. No one has such poor taste.

He has no idea.

-

The Chargers are red-faced with drink and elbowing each other near hard enough to bruise when they come across the grimy little shop with its collection of odds and ends. The Iron Bull has to duck and turn to make it through the door, and the shopkeep sucks his teeth at the sight of him.

He runs gentle fingers over a disgustingly pink tea set before gravitating towards the back, where a few figureheads in various states of repair hang in a riot of color and confusion.

And then, the whisper:

 _Krem!_ He hisses. _Look!_

In his voice, there is a mixed sense of wonder and pride. He stares, transfixed by the pierced brown nipples of a truly _erotic_ carving.

Krem wanders over, still smiling and stumbling a bit, but the joyous expression fizzles a bit when he realizes exactly where this is going. “Chief. No.”

“Lookit that moustache, Krem. There’s real character there.”

“We both know it’s the pointy wooden nipples you care about.”

“They’re _pierced,_ Krem. And he’s so pretty.”

“So was the one we knocked off.” Krem sighs. “Soft, pillowy breasts. Kinda like yours.”

Bull pouts, or gets as close to it as a qunari can manage. “He’s comin’ with us.”

At the bottom of the ocean, a busty redhead made of wood does not roll her eyes.

-

Under slightly different circumstances, Dorian would be living a well-frequented fantasy right now, being manhandled by a great hulking qunari with calloused hands.

That is, if a giggling elf weren’t presently securing him to a ship’s bow with magic that is simultaneously _cold_ and _itchy._ But as the power ebbs, he’s taken by a sensation rather like a full-body sigh.

The wood at his back welcomes him in, and he feels the wind in the sails, the creaking of the deck, and the soft lapping of the waves on skin that is far thicker now. It’s almost like happiness, until that familiar twinge of boat sickness turns in his belly.

 _Oh dear._ He thinks.

“Nice tits.” Another, angrier elf scoffs.

 _The Skinner,_ the ship supplies, helpfully.

The qunari— _The Iron Bull_ — pats his hip gingerly and says, “Welcome home, big guy” and his ragtag—his **_crew,_** _his precious crew. Footsteps on the boards. Skin on rope on sun on salt_ —they head up to their cabins with the soft-woven hammocks and ready themselves for sleep, and suddenly Dorian’s arms fall from their stiff position.

They ache horribly and all he wants to do is follow these strange folk down into the depths of sleep. But he’s attached to a _ship_ bobbing on the water, and he is the farthest from freedom he has ever been.

But suddenly he can _move_ , which is a thing that figureheads are most certainly not supposed to do.

“ _Kaffas,”_ He rasps.

Because he can do that, too.

-

The Chargers are strange, for pirates.

They’re strange for any group, really.

The Skinner hates humans, but tolerates the Krem, the Grim, and the Stitches, who are probably not named thus, (but the ship does not care.)

The Bull hangs somewhere between the Qun and the family, which is not part of the Qun, but very much a part of the Bull. Just like the ship is now part of Dorian.

No.

_Yes, very much._

Fine.

_Thank you._

Another wave of warmth, which is nice, because it drowns out the nausea and odd, because he is now sharing his consciousness with a _boat._

But the Chargers—the lot of them, they’re strange and affectionate and easy, even when they are also violent.

Dorian thinks, ‘This is what friendship is like. It must be nice.’

And the ship—it can’t frown, but it sighs very sadly in a rolling shiver under his skin. _You know the friendship. You call it Felix._

And Dorian suddenly very much appreciates sharing his consciousness with a boat.

-

But. The. Chargers. Are. Strange.

_And. Ours._

It’s rather like arguing with a small child over a toy. A toy they’re prepared to kill for.

-

They re-christen the ship _The Bull’s Rack._

The Rack is _proud_ of this.

 _Well,_ it does not laugh, but the sensation is similar. _What would_ you _call us?_

‘Friend, I think.’

_Felix._

‘No. That’s someone else’s name. You are you.’

The Rack does not respond. It is too busy quivering happily in the ocean breeze.

-

Their first engagement by sea is _pain_ and _chaos_ and _fury_ , and Dorian feels it twisting through his every nerve and sinew. The Rack rolls and lunges with the waves, but this time he is not sick, he is _powerful_ and angry. He rolls with the force of it and feels the roar of the cannons under Rocky and Grim’s steady hands.

He feels the volley of magic that Dalish desperately hurls and he supplements it, his mind clear, his every thought focused and sharp.

He is _helping._ They are _his._

This ship is _his._

This ocean is _home,_ and he will inhabit it as fiercely and wildly as he has ever inhabited his own body.

He is not sick anymore.

_You have never been._

-

Bull comes to talk to him, which is a surprise.

And then, even more surprising, Bull comes to talk to him _often._

And, most surprising of all, Dorian does not move an inch, nor does he bask in the shallow praise the captain lavishes on him like a younger lover. He is suspended, peacefully enveloped in the rumbling tones of Bull’s voice.

He listens to his concerns about the weather, the crew, the shadows trapped in the corners of his own mind. He listens to Bull breathe and move, and for the second time in his life, he wants desperately to shelter another person.

 _You are_ , says the Rack.

And that night, the lanterns burn brighter. There’s a song in the rocking of the ship.

Dorian is made of wood and cannot blush, but still he glows.  

-

Dorian is proud, impossibly so, and he cannot keep the smile from his face. Even when the Chargers disembark to stretch their land legs and spend a bit of coin, he can’t seem to stop.

“Oy.” Stitches says. “Wasn’t he frowning before?”

“It’s happened,” Rocky grins. “You’re seeing things.”

“I’m tellin’ you, he was frowning.”

“Impossible,” Krem snickers. “Chief’d never bring home a boy who wasn’t smiling.”

But he is nervous, Dorian knows.

Because Krem is smart and observant, and he looks back when they’ve walked a ways away. And because he catches the twitch of Dorian’s outstretched arms.

 _They won’t believe him,_ the Rack tries to placate him.

But the idea makes Dorian sad.

-

Their next engagement is less painful.

Dorian was ready for the raw sensation of it, the fire running through the lines of rigging like blood through veins he no longer possesses.

Dorian is prepared, but in the dead of the night with Grim lulled to sleep in the crow’s nest by the soft rocking of the ship and the waves, the Chargers are not. The enemy peppers them with gunfire that would sink a lesser (and, admittedly, non-sentient) vessel, but the curse has evidently not negated Dorian’s considerable abilities.

The ship shivers under his protective barrier, and he feels _thanks_ wash over him like the summer breezes in Qarinus. The Chargers rise with pounding, steady hearts, and they are his more than last time, more than ever as they hurry to the deck to see ‘exactly what the fuck’ that was.

 _A warship._ The Rack would spit if it could, but it is a very well-mannered vessel, well-equipped with many conveniences, none of which are a tongue. _Kill it._

‘We will.’

_Kill it._

But the Chargers are just hitting the deck now, gawking at the shimmering barrier separating them from a worrying number of bullets.

“What in the _Void_?” Stitches spits, because he _does_ have a tongue.

The Rack is very proud, and Dorian huffs.

“Who did that?!” Bull shouts—afraid, not afraid, _disturbed_ by the unannounced use of magic around his crew—and Dorian is tempted to shout at him to worry about that _later._

He shivers under the strain of maintaining his focus when everything is so open and _real_ and he gives up being a well-behaved carving quickly enough.

He was never quite as handy with barriers as he was with certain...other talents.

He can feel Grim stumble and issue a colorful streak of language when the first massive gout of flame wreathes from _The Bull’s Rack_ to whatever nameless little _tinderbox_ thought it a fine idea to fire on _their crew._

 _Bring them._ The Rack urges, because through Dorian, it can feel the souls of those far below calling up, calling out.

“You think they’re scared stiff now, they’ll _shit_ themselves if the dead start swimming.” Dorian growls, and it is the first time he has spoken in months. They are not moving. He needs them to move.

And, before he really knows what’s happening, he shifts in place.

_We will hold you! Go, go, go!_

Dorian feels the wood shift as he moves, bolstering him up as he climbs to the railing. He braces himself upon the deck by his elbows and frowns at the Chargers as one might at a group of misbehaving children.

 _“Well?!_ ” He hisses. “Am I meant to do this on my own?”

To their credit, they make it to their proper places in record time.

But not before Dalish throws a bolt of energy at him.

It stings.

It stings worse than gunfire, worse than his father’s curses.

But still, the fire pours from him until he slinks back to his position and waits. The warship sinks, the waves grow quiet as the ship grows quiet as the night continues on.

He waits, but no one comes.

He waits until he sleeps.

The Rack will stand guard.

-

Grim is the first to come to him, in the middle of the night, two days later. He lies on his belly, arms resting on the very edge of the deck, and studies Dorian intently.

Dorian tries to be still for a few moments, but Grim is patient and Dorian is tired. He lowers his arms and looks up at the other man.

Grim waves.

Dorian blinks, and waves back.

Grim reaches out to hold Dorian’s hand, and just...stays there.

“Heard you singing.” Grim says.

And this time, Dorian’s relief washes over the Rack. The sails buzz with energy. In the chill of night, the deck is warm. Grim falls asleep there, and nothing assails him.

-

One by one, they come to him.

Stitches is bitter, but quick enough to forgive.

Krem is angry, but not so cruel as to blame him for...well, all of this.

Rocky and Dalish both think this is all great fun, and Skinner is surprisingly unbothered by it all. Wooden isn’t much better than flesh, as far as humans go, he supposes.

The Iron Bull is the holdout.

Dorian does not peek behind the flicker of his candle, does not reach out to warm his cabin, does not so much as send a breeze sighing over his skin.

He waits, and eventually, the Bull comes to him.

-

“So, the boys tell me you didn’t enchant me into buying you.”

“I didn’t. That was down to poor taste and alcohol. I suspect the latter more than the former.”

“Hey, I’d say my taste is pretty all right. You’re not ugly or anything.”

“Be still my—well, no…” Dorian sighs.  

Bull laughs, but Dorian does not. “Er, yeah. You’re actually pretty…” He lets out a heavy sigh and sits on the deck with a soft _thud._ “It’s pretty damn strange to have wet dreams about a statue.”

Dorian is quiet for a few moments, letting that spark of real pleasure race through his body and then down the length of the ship before settling in his belly. “Technically, I’m a carving.”

“Really? I’d say you’re more statuesque.”

“I’ve been told this profile ought to be cast in marble.”

“Too right.”

“You aren’t frightened of me?”

“Oh, no. Yeah. Scared shitless. All that demon-y shit, but—”

“Did you just refer to magic in its entirety as ‘demon-y shit’?”

There’s a distant, hissing, ‘Oooooh’ from Dalish, but she quiets when Bull shoots her a Look.

“Nah. Just the turning people into talking figurines parts.”

“I don’t believe any demons were involved, though I suppose that would be undue charity on my part.”

“ _But_ you’ve been with us a while, and it’s pretty obvious you’ve been keeping us safe.” He runs his thumb over the wood of the deck, and the Rack shares it with him because _It’s yours._ “Plus, I’m pretty sure I could take ya in a _barnacle_ fight.”

Dorian is silent.

“Oh, come on. That one was good!”

“No, it wasn’t.”

But Dorian feels awake in a new way, with the open sky and the lapping water, and the feel of Bull settled warm and solid on his back.

-

Bull’s visits resume, but now Dorian gets to respond.

Gets to talk to him for hours.

Gets to keep these secrets not because Bull is unaware they’re shared, but because he _wants_ to share them.

Bull’s hand comes closer and closer to the edge, and Dorian’s flesh—or his bark, or whatever he’s made out of now—is eager and waiting for touch.   

Bull’s fingers make contact, and Dorian feels as if his chest is open for the ocean air to spill in and fill him up. Impossibly, inevitably blue.

-

“You moved, right?”

“I can, to an extent.”

“Need to make some repairs. D’you think you could give me a hand?”

“Are you using me for cheap labor?”

“And convenience. Don’t forget convenience.”

“Do you see how he treats me, Krem?!”

Krem rolls his eyes and calls, “Pretty sure he’d replace _me_ with a good, strong mule if it could run inventory.”

“Not true!” Bull laughs. “I’d at least hold out for a team of ‘em to hoist that maul of yours.”

Krem makes a rude hand gesture, and Dorian laughs. By the time he finishes and looks to Bull again, the soft smile has not disappeared from those thin lips.

“You up for some menial work?”

“Yes.” Dorian says. “And thank you.”

“What for?”

“The Rack has been sore. This will help.”

“Wait, you can—”

But Dorian is already off toward the place where the ship has been quietly hurting, already part of an echoing circuit of pleased acknowledgement. The ship supports and cradles him, and he feels so impossibly light.

His arms no longer hurt.

The sheet around his hips feels almost like silk again.

-

One night, they set up a card game near the bow, and Bull comes to the gap where they’ve removed a bit of railing so that Dorian might pop up to say hello.

Or judge them.

It’s anyone’s guess, really.

Bull kneels in the gap and reaches down like a proper gentleman, albeit one missing fingers, to help Dorian up.

Dorian takes the offered hand and moves his right leg, waiting for the strange shift of wood and what was once muscle to carry him upward, but it does not come. Instead, his leg—his _leg!_ —draws free of the hull and hangs in empty space.

He grasps Bull’s arm tight, but does not cry out. It’s too much to cry out. The sudden shift in his weight, and—

And Bull thinks he’s playing. The great fool chuckles softly and pulls him up, up, up and _free_ and then Dorian is falling against him, his skin softening, and the sheets loosening before falling at his feet in a useless, expensive pile.

Bull catches him, thunderstruck and blinking like a newborn nug. “You...legs?”

“Me legs.” Dorian breathes, and then they’re falling to the deck while the Chargers whoop and holler. He scrambles over Bull’s legs, into his arms and presses kisses everywhere he can reach.

The Rack _vibrates_ with joy, and he hasn’t lost that connection. He hasn’t.

They’re together, they’re free.

And they’re home.       

-

“Bull,” Dorian murmurs, some days later, against the warm grey of Bull’s skin. The dawn light is just peeking in through the window, edging over the deep blue-black of the sea.

The Rack giggles, knowing and waiting and loving it all so dearly.

Bull grunts, still enjoying the ability to sleep in with a warm body in his arms and not attached to the bow of his ship. “Mmmm?”

“How would you like to help me...with my ‘morning wood’?”

Bull laughs so hard Skinner spits curses from the next room, and muffles it with his teeth in Dorian’s shoulder.

But that big, broad palm slides down between his legs and around his cock and blearily Bull jokes, “Look, no splinters.”

And Dorian is alright with that.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr [here.](http://anabundanceofstilinskis.tumblr.com/)


End file.
